To Forget
by Rhamiel
Summary: Sherlock is gone. John can't believe it. Rated T.


Sherlock is dead. This shows John's reaction. There may be more chapters, if people want. If they do want, this story will probably go from T to M. Enjoy. :) (It's repetitive for a reason.) BTW, points to who gets the 7:35 ref.

* * *

><p><em>His mind whirled. He couldn't focus on any one thing.<em>

_Everything rushed through his mind at once._

_The body, motionless on the ground._  
><em>The people, rushing towards it.<em>  
><em>The blood, flowing freely and forming a large puddle.<em>  
><em>The blood, running down his face.<em>  
><em>The pain in his lugs -<em>

_Oh god, the pain!_

_It gripped his chest. He ran._

_He reached out. He waited for the familiar thump against his finger. He waited but it never came. He waited, until his hand was pulled away. The pain and shock gripped him, twisting like a jagged knife in his gut. He felt words slip from his mouth, but he didn't hear them. He didn't remember him. His mind was twirling, rushing -_

_God, no. No, no, no, no, NO!_

He jolted upwards.

He was in a cold sweat, and his lips trembled.

He took in his surroundings with the quick eye of a soldier; a vase with bowing English ivy. A brown desk. A black chair. A laptop. A window, closed behind white curtains. Brown slippers. A quilted bed. A beside table.

The clock showed **7:35**. Next to it, a picture of himself and Harry. A picture of himself and...

He looked away. This situation was all too familiar to him. He quickly sought to rid his mind of it with a shower and breakfast.

When he was out, Mrs. Hudson was already bustling around, chatting incessantly about whatever on God's green earth had interested her the day before. Good ol' Mrs. Hudson.

She brought a large pot of tea. Four biscuits. Two cups.

She left in a hurry, still chattering about Mrs. Bennet's new fling as she shut the door. The room was silent. He poured the tea for two, set the second cup across from him, and opened the newspaper.

His phone rang. He glanced at it.

_Harry._

Dissapointment. He ignored it.

He finished his own cup and two biscuits.

The clock announced 9am. He closed the paper and stood up.  
><em><br>His breakfast will be cold if he doesn't hurry._

He ignored a nagging thought in the back of his mind, demanding his attention. He refused it.

His phone rang again. He glanced at it.

_Molly. _

Dissapointment. He ignored it.

He took up his briefcase, fastened his jacket, and left. People whizzed by him. Laughing. Singing. Dancing. Talking on their cells. Drinking coffee. Going about life.

He went about his own life, too. He went to the hospital. He took care of patients. He prescribed them medicine for their ailments. Penicillin for Strep Throat. Naprosyn for Migraines. Prelone for Allergies. He worked through lunch.

He returned to Bakerstreet at 8:00pm. It was silent. A full cup of cold tea sat where he had placed it that morning. Two cold biscuits sat untouched.

_Probably still on a case._

He drank the coffee and ate the biscuits. There would be fresh ones for **him**in the morning, anyway. He undressed and went to bed.

_His mind whirled. He couldn't focus on any one thing._

_Everything rushed through his mind at once._

_The body, motionless on the ground._  
><em>The people, rushing towards it.<em>  
><em>The blood, flowing freely and forming a large puddle.<em>  
><em>The blood, running down his face.<em>  
><em>The pain in his lugs -<em>

_Oh god, the pain!_

_It gripped his chest. He ran._

_He reached out. He waited for the familiar thump against his finger. He waited but it never came. He waited, until his hand was pulled away. The pain and shock gripped him, twisting like a jagged knife in his gut. He felt words slip from his mouth, but he didn't hear them. He didn't remember him. His mind was twirling, rushing -_

_God, no. No, no, no, no, NO!_

He jolted upwards.

He was in a cold sweat, and his lips trembled.

He took in his surroundings with the quick eye of a soldier; a vase with wilting English ivy. A brown desk. A black chair. A laptop. A window, closed behind white curtains. Brown slippers. A quilted bed. A beside table.

The clock showed **7:35**. Next to it, a picture of himself and Harry. A picture of himself and...

He looked away. This situation was all too familiar to him.

He contemplated laying back down. Laying back down, closing his eyes, and going back to sleep. Escaping.

_Can't. __**He**__ needs me. _

He ignored the nagging thought, and instead, got up and showered. Mrs. Hudson was already out and setting the table when he came out, dressed. Good ol' Mrs. Hudson.

She brought a large pot of tea. Four biscuits. Two cups.

He didn't notice her leave. He looked over the four biscuits and the two cups. The nagging thought inched its way forward. He shoved it back.

But his stomach had already twisted into knots – one that rose to his throat. He drank a small cup of tea and threw two biscuits away. He wasn't hungry anyway.

His phone rang. He glanced at it.

_Harry._

Dissapointment. He ignored it.

He took up his briefcase, fastened his jacket, and left. People whizzed by him. Laughing. Singing. Dancing. Talking on their cells. Drinking coffee. Going about life.

He went about his own life, too. He went to the hospital. He took care of patients. He prescribed them medicine for their ailments. Penicillin for Strep Throat. Naprosyn for Migraines. Prelone for Allergies. He worked through lunch. He worked through lunch.

He had just locked up when he turned and was met with a familiar face. Pale, parted hair, a shy smile. She greeted him warmly. He smiled, said something, and continued forward. He heard her calling after him. Asking him something – to dinner? He apologized. 'Sorry Molly, busy.' He said.

He returned to Bakerstreet at 8:03. It was silent. A full cup of cold tea sat where he had placed it that morning. Two cold biscuits sat untouched.

He picked one up and took a bite. And an emotion gripped him so hard that he could scarcely bear it. He threw the biscuit. In one swipe, he spilled everything onto the floor. He screamed. He wasn't sure why, but he did. He screamed and screamed, and could only stop when he bit into his knuckle. He tasted blood.

His phone rang. He glanced it.

_Molly._

Dissapointment. He ignored it.

And then everything was silent. He washed and cleaned his bloodied knuckle. His phone rang twice. He shut it off and went to bed.

_His mind whirled. He couldn't focus on any one thing._

_Everything rushed through his mind at once._

_The body, motionless on the ground._  
><em>The people, rushing towards it.<em>  
><em>The blood, flowing freely and forming a large puddle.<em>  
><em>The blood, running down his face.<em>  
><em>The pain in his lugs -<em>

_Oh god, the pain!_

_It gripped his chest. He ran._

_He reached out. He waited for the familiar thump against his finger. He waited -_

_His eyes opened. Those blue eyes looked up at him. The thump was there – against his fingers. Relief flooded him, and he felt tears prick his eyes. A lop sided smile edged on his friends face. 'You didn't really think I was dead, did you?' John smiled. 'What is it like in your funny little head? Must be so boring.'_

_'Not in mine. Not with you around.' John said. His friend smiled again. And then his eyes closed. 'Sherlock?' The thump against his fingers weakened. And then stopped. 'Sherlock!"_

_A horrible fear gripped him._

_God, no. No, no, no, no, NO!_

He jolted upwards.

He was in a cold sweat, and his lips trembled.

He took in his surroundings with the quick eye of a soldier; a vase with limp English ivy. A brown desk. A black chair. A laptop. A window, closed behind white curtains. Brown slippers. A quilted bed. A beside table.

The clock showed **7:35**. Next to it, a picture of himself and Harry. A picture of himself and...

He looked away. This situation was all too familiar to him. Tears ran down his cheeks.

_He'll laugh when he sees me carrying on like this. _

He won't care, though. Just as long as he could see that smile again.

_Soon_. He promised the throb in his chest. He knocked the nagging thought away, and got up to get in the shower. Mrs. Hudson was already bustling around, chatting incessantly about Mrs. Flowers new indoor garden, or something of the kind. The mess from the night before was gone. Good ol' Mrs. Hudson.

She brought a large pot of tea. Four biscuits. Two cups.

She left in a hurry. He opened the paper, and then immediately closed it. He'd seen a picture. A name. Words beneath it. Bloody newspaper feed lies.

His turned his phone on. Five missed calls:

_Molly (8:37pm)_

_Harry (3) _

_Molly (7:45am)_

Dissapointment. He deleted them. He scrolled to his messages.

_Inbox: (94/173)_

He scrolled through them.

Dissapointment. He deleted them, too.

He bit into a biscuit and stared at the untouched tea. He swallowed.

"Your biscuits are getting cold." He announced to the silent flat. He shoved away the nagging thought. "I'll eat them again if you –" A strange note broke into his speech. High. Wavering. It forced him to trail off. The nagging thought was more persistent. He cleared his throat. "I'm not messing around anymore. Come – come eat breakfast..." He had to clear his throat again. "...please, come eat breakfast with..." The strange note again.

He shook his head.

_Must be tired from the case. _

His head began to throb. He quickly finished his biscuit and left the other one.

He fastened his jacket, and left. People whizzed by him. Laughing. Singing. Dancing. Talking on their cells. Drinking coffee. Going about life.

He forgot his briefcase. He went back to get it.

When he opened the door to his flat, he heard a noise. He stood, motionless. They were small, hiccuping noises. Coming from the flat? His mind raced to place it, and for about 10 seconds he just stood, listening. And then it hit him. Crying – no, sobbing. Mrs. Hudson. She was in his flat. Sobbing.

He turned to leave. God, he wanted to leave. Wanted to run. The Man in him told him to run.

But the Doctor said _no_. The Soldier said _hell no_.

So he shut the door and climbed the stairs. She sat on the floor. She sobbed into a pillow. She looked up at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes and smiled. She mumbled something about coming up here to clean a mess – but of course, there was no mess.

He knelt beside her and hugged her. She sobbed against his shoulder. He forced his mind to go elsewhere – and it ended up back in the Afghan war. He remembered the hot sun on his neck as he searched the bodies of dead enemies. Enemies that he had shot and killed. He searched for food and water. Sometimes he found pictures and letters. From loved ones. From family.

That hurt.

_That_ was easier then _this_.

He helped Mrs. Hudson down to her flat when she was ready, ignoring her chatter about the usual mess and how difficult it was to clean – and, anyway, who should she have to clean it? No normal tenant left heads in the freezer and eyeballs in the microwave. Just _him_.

He left the flat at 10:43am. People whizzed by him. Laughing. Singing. Dancing. Talking on their cells. Drinking coffee. Going about life.

His phone rang. He glanced at it.

_Ella._

Dissapointment. He ignored it.

He had forgotten his briefcase again. He didn't go back. He borrowed another one at the hospital. No one minded. He was forgiven for his lateness, without having to apologize. People patted him on the shoulder. Smiled at him. All forgiving him. He didn't even have to ask to be forgiven. People still smiled. Still forgave. All of them. Every single one of them.

He wanted to punch away their smiling faces.

He didn't.

He just went about his own life. He took care of prescribed them medicine for their ailments. Penicillin for Strep Throat. Naprosyn for Migraines. Prelone for Allergies. He worked through lunch. He worked through lunch.

He returned to Bakerstreet 8:00. It was silent.

Until the machine beeped. He had a message. His hand trembled as he pushed the button on his way in. Lestrade's voice filled the flat. Dissapointment. 'Hey! It's - It's eh... well, you know who it is, I'm sure...' There was a long pause. 'Look, John -" He deleted it.

_Probably for __**him**__ anyway. _

He undressed and tried to get to bed.

But sleep persistantly avoided him.

His mind wandered against his will, until it finally settled on **him**.

What **he** was doing, right now.

_Out solving some crime, no doubt. _

_Right now, he's probably disguised in some ridiciously believeable outfit, following some unwitting fellow. _

_Probably he's climbing over tall buildings, making some crazy jumps and swings over poles and fences. No doubt consulting his perfect mind-map of London and that will get him to the destination of his target before his target even gets there. _

_Probably running, right now. Probably chasing, right this very moment..._

He lulled himself to sleep in his manner.

_His mind whirled. He couldn't focus on any one thing._

_Everything rushed through his mind at once._

_The body, motionless on the ground._  
><em>The people, rushing towards it.<em>  
><em>The blood, flowing freely and forming a large puddle.<em>  
><em>The blood, running down his face.<em>  
><em>The pain in his lugs -<em>

_Oh god, the pain!_

_It gripped his chest. He ran._

_He reached out. He waited for the familiar thump against his finger. He waited -_

_His eyes opened. Those blue eyes looked up at him. The thump was there – against his fingers. Relief flooded him, and he felt tears prick his eyes. But his friend frowned._

_"Why are you doing this?"_

_"What?" John asked, confused. But the relief was too great to focus on it. "You're alive – I was worried, Sherlock –"_

_"I'm dead, John."_

_Confusion. He hesitated. "No...No, you're alive. See?" He held up his friend's wrist, where his two fingers were pressed. There was a steady beat beneath them. His friend sat up, and pulled his hand away. Blood dripped down the side of his face._

_"This is a dream, John. Even you, dim as you are, can see that much."_

_John laughed. "Don't be stupid, Sherlock. I think you hit your head too hard."_

_Sherlock didn't smile. "I did."_

_"What?" His smile lessened a bit. "You did what?"_

_"I __**did **hit my head too hard." Sherlock turned his head, slowly. And John could see broken fragments of bone protruding from ripped flesh. His heart gave a leap, and his stomach gave a nauseating twist._

_"Oh – God – Sherlock – you need – you need a -!" He looked around. There was nothing. No people, no buildings. Nothing. He jumped up – but Sherlock grabbed him, and pulled him down again. He smiled now._

_"You're the doctor, John." He looked into those blue eyes. "And this is a dream." Humor fell from his eyes. "Stop this, John. Stop pretending."_

_A throb of pain. "I'm not pretending anything!" A throb of anger. "You're the one pretending! Where the hell did you go?"_

_"I jumped -"_  
><em>"No."<em>  
><em>"I landed -"<em>  
><em>"No!"<em>  
><em>"I died."<em>  
><em>"Stop it now!"<em>

_Pain tore through his chest. "Just – why won't you stop? Why can't you just -" That note returned. He looked down, trying to collect himself. "Damn." He cursed through his teeth. Why did it hurt so much?_

_"It's time to stop this." He shook his head._  
><em>"It's time to stop pretending, John." He covered his ears.<em>  
><em>"It's time -"<em>

_"Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!" He screamed._

He jolted upwards.

He was in a cold sweat, and his lips trembled.

He took in his surroundings with the quick eye of a soldier; a vase with dead English ivy. A brown desk. A black chair. A laptop. A window, closed behind white curtains. Brown slippers. A quilted bed. A beside table.

The clock showed **7:35**. Next to it, a picture of himself and Harry. A picture of himself and...

He looked away. This situation was all too familiar to him. Tears ran down his cheeks.

Mrs. Hudson was at his door. Her eyes were wide, and scared. He must have slept in. 'Sorry, Mrs. Hudson." He said. And she smiled – that smile that she had when she really didn't want to smile at all. She was talking about her hip, and how it sometimes kept her up, too.

As if on cue, his leg gave a painful throb. His phone vibrated.

He glanced at it. Eight missed calls:

_Molly (9:21pm)_

_Harry (7) _

Dissapointment. He deleted them.

_Inbox: (120/120)_

He scrolled through them.

Dissapointment. He deleted them.

He got up and took a shower.

The table was set. Good ol' Mrs. Hudson.

A large pot of tea. Four biscuits. Two cups.

His leg throbbed. He sat down. He opened the paper, and ate two biscuits and drank his tea.

He fastened his jacket, and left. People whizzed by him. Laughing. Singing. Dancing. Talking on their cells. Drinking coffee. Going about life.

He only made it a mile before the pain in his leg became too much. He leaned against the stone wall.

His phone rang. He glanced at it.

_Harry._

Dissapointment. He ignored it.

He turned around, and hobbled back to the flat. He needed his cane.

Harry was waiting for him. She took one look at him, threw her cigarette down, cursed, and wrapped her arms around his neck. 'You've been ignoring me, you fuck.' She didn't sound angry. She sounded concerned. And hurt. He mumbled some apology and excuse. She ignored it. 'You look like shit.'

He mumbled something else, and tried to get away from her. She held onto him. 'John – talk to me.'

'No.' He pulled away from her. He just wanted his cane so that he could go to work. So that he could be on time. So that they wouldn't fucking forgive him for being fucking late without him _fucking _apologizing. She tried to keep him, tried to talk to him. He pushed her away. He screamed at her. 'Just stay away from me!'

She screamed back. But he shut and locked the door. She banged for a long time, and it took as long to find his cane, hidden in the back of his closet. His head gave a painful throb.

He passed the hall and caught his face in the mirror. Thin. White. _Wet? _

Tears. He quickly ran his sleeve across his face. His shirt was buttoned wrong. He corrected it, and smoothed his hair down. And then he left – limping.

There was a note crammed beneath the door:

_ "__You're a real fucking piece of work._

_You need to learn to let people in._

_John I'm asking you as your sister -_

_Please call me. This is important, we need to talk about it. _

_Don't fucking ignore me._

_Love always, Harry"_

He felt a throb of guilt, but shoved it to the back of his mind with everything else. He pocketed the note and limped onward to the hospital.

No one minded. He was forgiven for his lateness, without having to apologize. People pat him on the shoulder. Smiled at him. All forgiving him. He didn't even have to ask to be forgiven. People still smiled. Still forgave. All of them. Every single one of them.

He wanted to punch away their smiling faces.

He didn't.

He just went about his own life. He prescribed them medicine for their ailments. Penicillin for Strep Throat. Naprosyn for Migraines. Vicodin for Allergies. He -

He started. _Vicodin? For Allergies? _

He tried to run – but his leg screamed in pain. He cursed, grabbed his cane, and limped as fast as he could through the halls. He caught the patient outside the drug center, his signature on the paper, about to take the perscribed medicine. He grabbed it and ripped it up. He apologized for perscribing what could have killed his patient.

They forgave him.

He stared at the patients smiling, forgiving face. They patted his shoulder. 'It's okay, Doctor Watson. You've had a hard go at things. It's alright!'

He wanted to punch away their smiling face.

He did.

And when he was out of jail that night, the officer patted his shoulder.

He limped back to Bakerstreet by 9:15.

A full cup of cold tea sat where it had been that morning. Two cold biscuits sat untouched. He leaned against the door. His phone rang. He glanced at it.

_Molly._

Dissapointment. He ignored it. His head throbbed.

He limped to Sherlock's door and knocked. No answer. He let his head drop to cool oak.

"Hey..." Silence. He tried to smile. "You'll never guess... my limp is back." His voice wavered. Words rang though his mind. _'It's time to stop pretending, John.'_ "If you don't eat your biscuits..." His voice broke.

_"I jumped -" _  
>"If you don't eat them..."<br>_"I landed -" _  
>"They'll get..."<br>_"I died." _  
>"...Cold..."<p>

He couldn't breathe. He turned the knob and pushed it open. It was dark. And empty.

He stepped inward. On the bed lay a blue scarf. He picked it up. It was stained red. He felt a wave a nausea and turned it over to the rich, sapphire blue.

The pain intensified.

He pressed it to his face and breathed deeply.

And his legs gave out. He fell forward. A sob ripped through the silence.

_"That's what people do, right?" _

"No - please -" He choked.

_"They leave notes." _

"God - no!"

_"Goodbye, John." _

"Sherlock!" He buried his face into the scarf, pain tearing through him like a white hot iron and he couldn't scream for the lump in his throat. He sobbed uncontrollably for what he barely registered to be the 3rd time that month.

And the only solace he could take was knowing that in the morning, when Mrs. Hudson brought 4 biscuits and 2 cups, he could again force himself to forget what he knew would always be with him:

Tomorrow, he would forget that his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was dead.


End file.
